


Blowtorched Eyeballs, Ruined Dates and Confessions

by katieelizabeth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-08 07:37:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1932318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katieelizabeth/pseuds/katieelizabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The smell of burnt eyeballs, a gatecrashed date and an unexpected admission.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blowtorched Eyeballs, Ruined Dates and Confessions

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own any characters.  
> All mistakes are my own.  
> Please comment and leave constructive criticism x x

Moving in with him had been the ideal solution really. Especially when her new landlord had turned out to be a lecherous old man, who’d immediately put up her rent by almost £200. He, of course, sited his only reason for offering was the space he had in the flat after his return, though she suspected that after being ‘dead’ for two years, he hated the silence of an empty flat. Not that she ever mentioned that to him.

By and large he wasn’t that difficult to live with really, once you got used to finding jars of eyeballs in the microwave and tubs of fingernails in the cutlery drawer, tripping over stray hand guns and avoiding the plethora of swords scattered around the place, not to mention the odd moods that took him every so often. Still, she liked getting home to someone.

Well usually she liked it, but today she was assaulted by the most god awful smell as soon as she unlocked the black lacquered door. Molly grimaced, closing the door behind her before stooping down to scoop up the post, which today consisted of two letters for Mrs Hudson, which she deposited on the small side table, three letters addressed to Sherlock, one addressed to her, which was undoubtedly a credit card statement, and a badly wrapped parcel, with ‘Sherlock Holmes’ scribbled across the front. She frowned down at the package as she climbed slowly up the stairs, taking care to breath through her mouth because the smell seemed to be getting stronger the closer she got to 221b. By the time she got to the flat door, having decided that the parcel was probably from a client, the smell was almost unbearable. So much so that she shuffled the post round until it was clamped under her arm and covered her nose and mouth with her knitted teal scarf.

Molly strode into the flat, finding Sherlock sat in his armchair, apparently oblivious to the atrocious smell, his fingers steepled under his chin. “Have you been blow torching eyeballs again?” she demanded, her voice muffled by the scarf as she dumped her bag and post on the sofa, stomped across the room and heaved open the two windows on either side of the table.

“Hm. I need to find the exact combustion temperature. Results so far have proved inconclusive…” she grunted at that and strode into the kitchen to open the windows there too. “…I may have to repeat the experiment under laboratory conditions.”

“No.” she said immediately, yanking off her coat and hanging it up beside his on the back of the door. “No way. You are not stinking out my lab again. It’s bad enough that I have to get home to it without working with it too.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It’s not that bad.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t asphyxiated by now.” she said tartly.

“There’s no need to be quite so melodramatic, Molly.”

She shook her head and retrieved the post from the sofa. “Post…” she said somewhat unnecessarily. “…three letters for you…” she handed him the letters which he promptly threw on the floor. “…and a parcel.”

When she attempted to hand him the package he shook his head. “Deductions?”

Molly smirked, this was something he’d taken to doing over the past few months. He liked to test her.

Casting an appraising eye over the parcel, she took a deep breath. “Well…there’s no proper address on it and the wrapping is ripped from being forced through the letter box, the post man would’ve left a card and taken the parcel back to the sorting office…which suggests it’s from a client. It’s very badly wrapped, looking at that and the handwriting, I would say it’s from a man. The slant of the letters and the fact that most of the word ‘Sherlock’ is smudged implies that the man is left handed…” she paused and peered closely at the untidy scrawl. “…fountain pen I think, though the paper seems quite cheap.” Molly turned it over and examined the back. “There are flakes of skin stuck to the parcel tape…eczema probably.” she stopped yet again, frowning at a small red-brown stain on the edge of the paper. “There’s a small amount of blood on the paper. He gave himself a paper cut while wrapping it. And that’s it.” she finished, holding the package out to him.

Sherlock hummed. “Not bad. I’m surprised you picked up on the skin flakes.”

“I’ve been practicing.”

“Do you want to…” he started, looking up from the parcel in his hands before stopping abruptly, his blue-green eyes darting from side to side, indicating that he was now in, what she privately called, ‘deduction mode’. “…your hair is two and three quarter inches shorter.”

She expected him to say something else, go on about the hair on her cardigan and blouse or something, but he didn’t. “Yeh…” she muttered finally, tugging on the end of the messy pony tail she’d scraped her newly cut hair into as she left Tony & Guy’s (frivolous she knew, but she never indulged in any other beauty treatments, apart from occasionally painting her nails). “…I stopped at my hairdressers for a quick trim on the way home, that’s why I was late.”

“Why?”

“Uh…I have a date.”

Disappointingly his face remained impassive. Not that she expected him to be bothered by it, not really. However much she’d once hoped that she would become more than just his pathologist or, as she now was, his friend, she knew that Sherlock simply didn’t feel such things. She’d long ago come to terms with that fact of course, if she hadn’t, living with him would’ve been unbearable. Though, even now she was occasionally mesmerised by his perfect features and lean form, which was accentuated by the tight dress shirts, slim cut suits and the occasional bed sheet, though she’d requested that he stop parading around in that.

“A date?” he said with obvious disinterest, his eyes returning to the parcel.

Molly nodded. “Uh-huh…his name’s Tom. Meena introduced us at her birthday party a few weeks ago. He works with Sasha, you know, Meena’s boyfriend.”

He grunted noncommittally.

“Yeh…he texted while I was at work and asked if I wanted to have dinner with him. I mean, I haven’t been out with anyone for ages, so I thought that it was time to get back out there and he seemed nice when I met him…” she really wanted to stop talking, but she found that she couldn’t. It was like verbal diarrhea. “…and I know you’ve said before that I shouldn’t date to preserve national security but, I doubt that everyone I go out with can be a psychopath. It’s statistically impossible, I mean there can’t be that many psychopaths in the world, can there? And Meena would never introduce me to someone dodgy and anyway I think Sasha has known him for years so I’m quite sure he’s not a maniac…” finally she trailed off, unable to think of any more inane things to say. After a long minute of complete silence, broken up by Sherlock noisily unwrapping the brown parcel, revealing what appeared to be a woollen Peruvian hat with large blue bobbles, she spoke again. “I’d better go and get ready.”

Sherlock shrugged, pulling out the note that was enclosed in the package.

Molly sighed and turned around, striding off up to her bedroom.  
 

* * *

  
Sherlock waited exactly ten minutes, listening as Molly entered her bedroom, moved around a bit, left it again three and a half minutes later, came down the stairs and went into the bathroom, his listened to the various clunks as she no doubt sorted through the large amount of moisturising shower gels she had in there, finally the hum of the shower started and he was up, striding across the room to where her coat was hanging. Her mobile phone was easy to find since she always put in her right hand coat pocket, much like him. He frowned, turning the iPhone, in its stupid grinning cat covered casing, in his hands. The phone cover was one of many cat themed items Molly owned which now cluttered up the flat, including a plethora of cat mugs, several books about cat breeds, cat coasters, several cat pens, cat notebooks, cat ornaments though those were strictly restricted to her bedroom, a cat cushion which now accompanied the union jack cushion on her armchair, not to mention a real live cat in the shape of a grumpy tabby called Toby.

If Molly knew what he was about to do, she would kill him, and she was probably the only person who could do it and get away with it. But still, he reasoned, he was being a good flatmate. He didn’t know this man, this Tom, and neither did Molly, Not really. And, despite her assurances that Meena would never set her up with someone ‘dodgy’, Sherlock didn’t quite trust the woman’s judgement, particularly not when her previous relationship choices ranged from a serial adulterer to a kleptomaniac who’d been sent to prison no less than six times. And while her current boyfriend, Sasha Denton (primary school teacher, 36, vegetarian, rock-climbing enthusiast) was of a more upstanding ilk, he still didn’t quite trust Meena’s judgement.

His mind made up, he pressed the single button at the bottom of the phone and tapped in the simple password, which was the date and month of Molly’s birthday. He didn’t understand why people bothered with such pathetic security measures, there was little point if you were going to use something so easy to deduce.

It took him no time at all to find the messages she’d exchanged with Tom.

**Message received at 10:15**   
_Hello, Molly. This is Tom,_   
_we met the other night at_   
_Meena’s b’day party. I_   
_wondered if you’d like to_   
_have dinner sometime._   
_Let me know. Tom :-)_

Frankly the whole message irritated him, particularly ‘b’day party’ and the smiley face. This Tom already sounded like an idiot.

Molly hadn’t replied for quite some time. Sherlock felt a sort of vindictive pleasure at that, ‘Tom the Idiot’ had been waiting for almost five hours for a response, he’d probably given up hope.

**Message sent at 14:40**   
_Hi, Tom. I would love to have_   
_dinner with you._   
_When were you thinking? M x_

Sherlock’s eyes lingered on the capital M, followed by the x which he’d been told represented a kiss. That was how she’d always signed the texts she’d sent to him, right from when they’d first started working together over eight years ago now. The fact that she’d used it with a man that she hardly knew was annoying. Of course he didn’t like to examine why too closely. Oh, he knew the answer but it was something he’d tended to avoid thinking about, since he’d come to the crashing realisation that he was in love with Molly Hooper.

He couldn’t say when it had happened, he supposed that it had happened so slowly he simply hadn’t noticed, but he could pinpoint the exact moment he’d realised. It had been only a few weeks after Molly had moved in and he’d been in the middle of a case which had originally started as a six but had quickly escalated to an eight. He’d spent a little time in the lab before going to examine the crime scene again, with the intention of returning to see Molly for test results. In the end he’d become distracted by the case and hadn’t gone back to Barts. Molly had apparently decided not to wait for him and left, going home to Baker Street. Lestrade had called him while he was in the middle of interrogating a witness to tell him that Molly had been hit by a car on her way home. The driver had had no lights on so Molly hadn’t seen him, and he’d been texting on his mobile phone so he hadn’t seen her.

The feeling in Sherlock’s gut had been indescribable, despite Lestrade’s assurances that she wasn’t too badly hurt, she’d got concussion, a laceration to her head and minor cuts and bruises, he felt terror which even surpassed what he’d felt when he realised that John was trapped in a bonfire which had recently been lit. He also couldn’t shake the feeling of guilt, Sherlock was only too aware that if he’d stuck to his plans and gone back to St Bart’s, he would probably have walked her home. The feeling still stuck, even when John had pointed out that he might’ve been the one who got run over if that had been the case. Rather me than Molly. He’d thought at the time.

Naturally he’d gone straight to the hospital, with John in tow. After a slight disagreement with several nurses who’d attempted to stop him from going into Molly room, because he wasn’t a relative, he’d finally got to see her. He would never forget the image of her lying in that bed. She’d looked so small and vulnerable with a large bandage around her head and tubes going in and out of her. The protectiveness he’d felt had shocked him, he’d wanted to wrap her in his arms and keep her safe forever. He hadn’t realised exactly what it meant until several weeks later.

He hadn’t told anyone about his epiphany. He knew that he’d be no good for Molly, he’d already hurt her too many times, thus he’d kept it from her. He was completely content to be her friend. Which had been fine because she’d never shown any desire to date anyone, unlike before they’d been friends when she’d dated quite regularly with usually disastrous results, note Moriarty. But now it was different, now she was apparently interested in an obvious imbecile, who called birthdays ‘b’days’ and signed off texts with smiley faces.

With a smirk he saw that Tom had replied three minutes later. This smacked of desperation.

 **Message received at 14:43**  
 _Tonight too soon? A friend of_  
 _mine owns Stucco’s in Soho._  
 _I can see if she can get us a_  
 _table. 7:30 ok? Tom :-)_  

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He was absolutely desperate, clearly rushing Molly into a decision. His irritation increased as he noticed that Molly replied only five minutes later. Of course, that was probably because she was on a late lunch break.

**Message sent at 14:48**   
_No, tonight is great. I know the_   
_restaurant, I’ve been meaning_   
_to try it. 7:30 is great._   
_See you there? M x_

He scrolled quickly to Tom’s answer.

**Message received at 14:54**   
_Yes. Looking forward to it. Tom :-)_

With another eye roll, Sherlock retrieved his phone from the pocket of his trousers, scrolled through his address book until he found the name he was looking for and, after checking the shower was still on, pressed ‘Call’.

The phone was answered after only four rings. “Hello, Mr Holmes’ office.”

“Is he in?” he asked quickly.

Anthea make a small noise in the back of her throat. “He is. I’ll put you through.”

There was a quick burst of Chopin before Mycroft answered. “Ah, Sherlock. How unusual for you to make a social call.”

“It’s not a social call, Mycroft. I need you to run a background check for me.”

His brother tutted. “Contrary to your belief, I do have other things to be doing besides running errands for you.”

“You owe me, after I helped with that little problem…not to mention the Russian diplomat issue.”

“Are you blackmailing me, Sherlock?”

Sherlock laughed harshly. “Of course not, brother dear, I am merely mentioning all of the favours I’ve done for you recently. Then there was coming back when you told me to and stopping the terrorist attack, the American contingent…need I go on?”

Mycroft harrumphed. “Very well…but you will be accompanying mummy and father to the theatre the next time they visit.”

Sherlock sighed loudly. “Fine.”

“Mummy will be pleased, she mentioned that she’d love to see Mamma Mia, so I’m sure you’ll enjoy that…” Sherlock winced. “…now who is this person you need a background check on? I assume it’s for a case.”

“No, it’s not. It’s more friendly concern, if you will. Molly is going out for dinner with someone and I am not fully convinced he is trustworthy.”

Mycroft chuckled down the line. “Still caring I see. Fine…give me the name.”

“Ah…that is the problem. I only have his first name.”

“And precisely how do you expect me to do a background check with only a first name?”

He rolled his eyes. “He is called Tom, presumably Thomas and he works at Barrow Hill Junior School.”

There was the tapping of a keyboard followed by a hum from Mycroft. “I assume Miss Hooper doesn’t know about this.”

“Doctor Hooper, Mycroft. And no, she doesn’t.”

“Hm…getting involved again. I warned you, Sherlock…” his brother said in a tone which made Sherlock grit his teeth. “…you know perhaps you should invite _Doctor_ Hooper when you go to the theatre with mummy and father.”

Sherlock snorted. “Why on earth would I do that?”

“I’m sure mummy would be thrilled to meet her, she was most intrigued when I mentioned you were now living with a woman. In fact she was more interested than when I informed her of your cohabitation with John.”

He rolled his eyes, briefly removing the phone from his ear so he could check if the shower was still humming. It was. “I think cohabitation is the wrong word, Mycroft. Particularly since John and I were not in a sexual relationship.”

“That’s not what mummy thought.” the smile was evident in Mycroft’s voice.

“You know, perhaps you should think on my suggestion and get yourself a goldfish, then you would have things to think about, other than my private life…” he paused and smirked. “…I heard that Anthea is single again, maybe you should pursue your obvious attraction to her.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sherlock.”

At that moment he heard the shower cut out, this was followed by the sound of Molly once again clattering about with her shower gels before the bathroom door opened, he then listened intently as she climbed the stairs to her bedroom and closed the door. The sweet scent of her raspberry shampoo slowly replacing the now fading smell of burnt eyeballs. He sucked in gulps of air greedily, he loved the smell, so much so that he’d carefully filed it away in Molly’s room in his mind palace.

“Thomas Meade.” Mycroft said suddenly, bringing him back to the situation in hand.

“And?”

“Patience, brother mine…” Mycroft muttered irritably. “…he’s thirty-five, born on the twenty-fifth of July 1979, bought up in St Albans by Joseph and Lillian Meade, two brothers Benjamin and James, respectable family, father is a solicitor and mother is a teacher.  He’s got a 2:1 in Philosophy and English Literature from the University of Hertfordshire.  He teaches children aged seven to eight at Barrow Hill Junior School, obviously no convictions, unspent or otherwise, no history of heart disease or mental health problems in the family.  He was married for three years but got divorced five months ago…has a dog called Oreo…” Sherlock nearly laughed at the disgust in Mycroft’s voice. “…perfectly normal man, it appears. In fact, just the kind of man Doctor Hooper would pursue a relationship with.”

Sherlock grimaced, scowling down at Molly’s phone that he still held in his hand, the screen now black, hiding the overly cheerful messages they’d exchanged. This wasn’t what he’d hoped to hear. “So…there’s nothing wrong with him?”

“Aside from hideous taste in animal names, no.”

He harrumphed loudly. “Why did his marriage break down?”

“I don’t know, Sherlock, though his ex-wife is now engaged to someone else, that could have something to do with it.”

“Sob story?”

“Probably…now is that everything? Or did you want me to bug his telephone, or perhaps send some MI6 agents to tail him?” Mycroft asked sarcastically.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Remember to think on my suggestion, Mycroft…a goldfish or something.”

“Goodbye, Sherlock.” with that, the line went dead.

Sherlock returned Molly’s phone to her left coat pocket, after setting it back to the home screen, which was a picture of Toby lying across the back of the sofa in the flat, and turning it off. He was now faced with a decision. While this Thomas Meade was probably not a psychopath that did not mean that he was trustworthy. There could very well be something else behind the breakdown of his marriage. With that in mind he strode back to his armchair, phone in hand, and began planning exactly what he was going to do.

That required a little research on the internet, which he was in the middle of when Molly came back into the room, smelling of her honeysuckle perfume and of course, that raspberry shampoo. He closed the laptop down and glanced up, taking in the navy blue dress with white butterflies over it, the black tights, black ankle boots and loose hair which cascaded down her back. Her face had slightly more make-up on than usual, her lashes dark and pronounced against her pale skin and there was evidence of powdered blusher on her cheeks.

Molly smiled. “Alright?”

He blinked rapidly, realising that he’d probably been staring. “Fine. New…new dress?”

She peered down at it. “Oh, yes. I bought it when I was out with Meena the other day. Do you like it?”

“Err…yes...yes. It’s nice.”

Molly frowned, her head cocked slightly to one side. “Are you ok? Only you look a little odd.”

“I’m fine.”

She looked unconvinced. “Was someone else here? I thought I heard talking.”

Sherlock made a noise in the back of his throat. “Mycroft.”

“Ahh…right…” she said, stepping past him and stretching up so she could see to apply lip balm in the mirror over the fire. “…that accounts for the strange mood.”

Sherlock answered as if on autopilot. “Hmm…he wanted help with a case, I said no. I expect he’ll try again.” he said, his eyes focussed on Molly’s matte black clad thighs. The clothes she usually wore for work did her no favours, they made her look rather dumpy but the dress showed off her slim waist and legs. She looked lovely.

Molly stepped back, causing him to move his eye line up abruptly. She smiled at him before striding back across the room and beginning to fiddle with the contents of her handbag, sweeping her hair to one side, exposing the creamy white curve of her neck. Sherlock was transfixed. He wanted to know if the skin there was as soft as it looked. He wanted to know what it tasted like. Would he be able to feel her pulse thrumming away in her throat if he pressed his lips against it? What would she do if he got up and did just that, right now? Would she sigh? Moan? She’d definitely bite her lip. And then he would kiss her mouth and…

“Sherlock? Sherlock?” she said insistently, her voice shaking him back to the present.

“What?” he asked, blinking rapidly.

“Are you ok?”

“Fine.”

“Are you sure, you look a little flushed. I hope you’re not coming down with something.”

“I’m fine.” he said slowly, scowling at her.

“Hmm. I was just saying that I won’t be back late…” she continued, pulling on her black pea coat that she saved for special occasions. “…do you have any plans?” she asked, switching her phone from the right pocket of her parka to the right pocket of her pea coat.

“No.”

She hummed. “You could call John or…”

Sherlock shook his head. “No…Friday nights are Mary’s, remember. We agreed. Fridays, Sundays and three evenings a week are Mary’s…the rest are for cases. And anyway…the last case ran over so Mary missed out on their so called ‘date night.’”

“Well…remember to eat, won’t you?”

“I’ll get a takeaway. I know a fantastic fish shop just off the Marylebone Road. The owner always gives me extra portions.”

“Did you get him off a murder charge?” she asked, smiling wryly.

“Nope…helped him put up some shelves.”

Molly giggled, rolling her eyes as she wrapped her long teal scarf around her neck. “I’ll see you later. Enjoy your fish and chips and I don’t want to come home to find more bullet holes in the wall…d’you hear me? Mrs Hudson’ll have a fit if she has to get it repapered…again.”

“Yes, mother.” he muttered petulantly.

Molly grinned once more and left. He listened as she walked down the stairs before closing the front door behind her. He then got up and watched as she hailed a taxi, got in and quickly disappeared round the corner. Once she was out of sight he returned to the laptop.

Stucco’s was a new restaurant on Heddon Street in Soho. Twenty-five minutes on foot, fourteen on the tube and six by car. Sherlock checked the time, it was eight minutes past seven. He had plenty of time to complete his plan and arrive at the perfect time.  
 

* * *

  
Tom was…nice. There was no other word for it. He’d arrived at exactly half past seven, pressed a slightly clumsy kiss to her cheek and was now sat opposite her, sipping from a pint of beer. If she was honest she hadn’t actually remembered what he looked like when she had read his text, so she’d made a quick call to Meena who had a day off. Her friend had given her a brief description before concluding that he was gorgeous and lovely, she also helpfully reminded her that she hadn’t been on a date for ages. That, along with some gentle needling about how she couldn’t keep hoping that Sherlock would wake up on day and realise that he was madly and passionately in love with her, had pushed her to agree to the date. Besides, she was over him so why not see what was out there? Or even who was out there?

Tom was pleasant looking, ugh, pleasant was a worse word than nice, he was quite tall, about six foot if she had to guess, had dark curly hair, an unusually angular face and blue eyes. When she’d first seen him, she’d almost choked on her own spit. To be frank he looked like a slightly less designer version of Sherlock. His coat was even in the same style as the Belstaff, albeit a shorter version and clearly made from cheaper wool. Thankfully he wasn’t wearing a suit, instead he was clad in dark indigo jeans and a purple jumper with a white shirt underneath. Still, she wondered why Meena hadn’t mentioned the fact that he bore more than a passing resemblance to Sherlock. Perhaps her friend had thought it would be a major selling point. It wasn’t, how could she move on when the person she was on a date with reminded her of him?

Still, as he began asking questions, all of which seemed to be taken directly from a magazine article called ‘Questions to ask on a First Date’, she pushed Sherlock out of her mind. Tom isn’t Sherlock. She thought, as she listened to Tom describing growing up in St Albans with his parents and two brothers, and it wasn’t fair on him if she was thinking of another man while they were on a date.

“I always fancied having an older brother.” she said, tearing a piece of bread off one of the slices in the middle of the table and dipping it in the small dish of olive oil, which the waiter had put there when they’d sat down.

“Really?”

She nodded, eating the bread a little gingerly. The combination of bread and oil was something she thought was a bit odd. She knew it was the norm in the Mediterranean but really, oily bread? Weird. “Oh yes…I thought it would be quite useful, especially at school.”

Tom smiled. “Hm…Ben had his moments but he also gave me Chinese burns all the time and pushed over my younger brother, James, and blamed it on me.”

She chuckled, glancing down at the menu in front of her. Stucco’s was a brand new Spanish restaurant in the heart of Soho, she’d read about it in the newspaper and had wanted to try it out. It seemed to be one of those minimalistic places, that had odd art installations and Jackson Pollock pieces, breaking up the stark white bare brick walls. It was lit by long black pendant lights which hung down so low, that should any couple attempt an impromptu over the table kiss, they would surely hit their heads. All of the furniture matched the dark lights, even the strange leather cubes that they had instead of proper chairs. While the boxes might have looked cool, they were, in fact, very uncomfortable, Molly’s back was already aching even though they’d only been there for fifteen minutes. Just as she was about to speak, a black clad waiter appeared and took their order of salt cod brandada for Molly and milk-fed lamb cutlets for Tom.

“What about you? Any annoying siblings?”

She shook her head. “Nope, I’m an only child. My mum died when I was young, so she and my dad didn’t get a chance to have anymore.”

“Oh Jesus…I’m sorry.”

“It’s ok, it was a really long time ago and I don’t remember that much about her…” she replied softly. “…only what my dad told me. He bought me up on his own. He had a few girlfriends when I was a teenager but none of them stuck around, so it was usually just me and him.”

He picked up a piece of bread and tore off a chunk, chewing it slowly before replying. “You must be really close.”

“We were.” she said quietly.

Realisation dawned on his face, his features taking on the all too familiar ‘poor Molly’ look that she’d got all the way through her fathers funeral. “Is he…”

“Yes. Nine years ago now…” she murmured. “…so it’s just me and Toby, that’s my cat. I think I have an aunt…my mother’s sister, but she lives somewhere in Canada.”

Tom frowned at his beer contemplatively. “It must be hard having no family.”

“Sometimes but I have good friends, that’s all I need now.” she paused, shifting slightly in an attempt to alleviate the pain in her lower back. Damn chairs! “So, you’re a teacher, aren’t you?” Molly asked reluctantly, she didn’t particularly want to discuss their respective jobs but she had to remove ‘the look’ from his face.

Tom nodded. “Yes. At Barrow Hill.”

“What year?”

“Year three, so they’re seven or eight.”

She smiled. “Aww…sweet.”

“They can be. They can also be little shits.” he smirked.

“I’m sure…” she replied, studying the black cutlery which was resting on a black napkin. “…my friend Mary’s a teacher. She teaches English at St Augustine’s.”

“She’s a brave woman. I couldn’t teach high school kids.”

“I know…the stories she tells me.” she shuddered and shook her head.

Tom smiled. “I’m sure. A friend of mine did a placement at a high school when we were training. He told me some horror stories too.”

They fell silent, tension permeating Molly’s body as she waited for the inevitable question.

“Meena told me you work at Barts with her. Are you a nurse on the same ward?”

Molly raised her eyebrows, she was surprised that Meena had failed to mention anything about her job, she could’ve at least given him a clue. Still, she supposed it was an acid test, if he paled at he thought of her job, he probably wasn’t for her. “Umm…no, actually I’m a doctor.”

“Oh, sorry…I just assumed. Meena said you’d met at work so…”

She shrugged. “It’s fine…a perfectly logical assumption. Meena and I started on the same day, we were both newbies in the canteen and sort of bonded right away.”

“Right. So, what department do you work in?”

Molly sucked in a deep breath before answering. “Pathology. I’m a pathologist.”

Tom’s eyes widened. “So…you-you cut up dead people?” he asked faintly, replacing the piece of bread he’d been about to eat.

“I perform post mortems, yes…but I also examine samples for cancer cells and other diseases.”

“And you work in a-a morgue?”

She nodded. “Yes, and the lab. I split my time between the two usually.”

“Don’t you find it creepy?” he asked, wrinkling his nose.

Molly shook her head. “No, actually the morgue is quite peaceful.”

Tom looked thoroughly unconvinced. “Why…um, why pathology?”

“I don’t know. Death has always fascinated me…” she glanced at him and smiled apologetically. “…but it’s more than that. I like being able to help grieving families, give them answers. Closure, I suppose. People have a lot of questions when a loved one dies and I like knowing that I can give them those answers, particularly the families of murder victims. They usually ask if their loved one suffered, you know…if they would’ve felt any pain or knew what was happening to them. It’s nice…well not nice but satisfying to be able to put their minds at rest.”

“I suppose that would be quite rewarding, but I still don’t know how you can do it, dealing with dead bodies every day.”

She shrugged, tracing random patterns in the condensation which was coating her black wine glass. “You get used to it. I’ll admit that there are things I dread getting in…children for example are always horrible. And I’ll never forget the first drowning I dealt with. He’d been in the Thames for three months, the water went everywhere. I also hate getting people in who’ve been dead for a while, especially if the decomposition hasn’t gone far enough to attract flies…it’s the maggots you see, they eat the rotting flesh so a corpse with maggots is a lot nicer to deal with than one without. It’s the smell really, it tends to cling to my clothes and hair and…” she trailed off, catching sight of Tom’s green, clammy face. “…oh god, I’m so sorry.” she blurted out. “You should’ve stopped me. I’m just so used to talking to my flatmate about it, he doesn’t bat an eyelid.”

Tom took a gulp of his drink. “It’s alright, I just…it never crossed my mind that people do that job.”

“Well, we do.” she replied, swirling her wine around her glass. “And I really am sorry. I’m usually a lot better at censoring what I say.”

“It’s fine, though I hope the food takes a while longer to come.” he said, swallowing convulsively

Molly eyed his still slightly green complexion and nodded in agreement.

“Y’know, I don’t think I’ve ever met a pathologist before.” the man opposite her stated uncertainly.

She attempted a bright smile but she suspected it looked more like a grimace. “Well, usually we stick to the morgue. And only come out at night, to avoid the live people. Dead people are much easier to deal with…they don’t talk back, see.”

Tom remained straight faced.

Sherlock’s voice echoed around her head. _Don’t joke, Molly._ She shoved away the voice, taking a huge gulp of wine to hide her embarrassment before clearing her throat uncomfortably. “I think I’ll just pop to the ladies, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure, go ahead.”

She located the ladies toilets after only one mistake where she’d nearly blundered right into the kitchens. The loos were as fashionable as the restaurant itself, everything was sparse white, from the floor tiles to the toilet cubicles, there was a lighting installation over the top of a long black leather sofa and the counter that held a row of sinks was made from clear Perspex. It was, without doubt, the weirdest public toilets she’d ever been in. She didn’t actually need the loo, she had just needed to escape for a few minutes, so she was grateful that the room was empty save for her.

She leant against the counter and peered at her reflection in the strange mirror, which was really just a collection of different sized squares joined together. Tom really was nice. The only thing was, she wasn’t entirely sure if he was anything else. He’d even been polite while she’d sat there prattling on about rotting corpses, instead of asking her to shut up. And really, had she honestly thought a joke about dead people not talking was a good idea? No doubt he thought she was some kind of freak but was just too nice to say anything. Molly sighed and began fiddling with the lock of hair which was hanging over her shoulder. After his reaction, she could safely say that he wasn’t the man for her. Still, she could at least enjoy the date, never mind that it wasn’t leading anywhere. It was also probably best that she avoided any death based jokes as well.

After combing her fingers though her hair and returning it to some semblance of order, she left the bathroom, almost walking straight into someone as she made her way back to the table.

“Sorry.” the man muttered, side stepping her.

She peered up at him. “Tom?”

“Oh…Molly.” her date replied uneasily.

Molly frowned as she realised he was wearing his coat and making his way towards the doors. “Where are you going?”

“Been called away I’m afraid…” he said stiltedly. “…unavoidable.”

“But the food hasn’t even arrived yet.”

“Ah…no. But it’s an…um…emergency. I have to go.” he babbled, glancing somewhat nervously over his shoulder. “I’ve left half the bill on table. Sorry.” with that he turned and stumbled away, almost tripping over his own feet in his haste to get away from her.

Molly watched him go feeling confused and slightly hurt. She hadn’t thought it had been going that badly, ok so the joke had been a mistake but she’d told worse, though perhaps the news that she worked with dead people was too much for him. But surely he would’ve left as soon as she was in the loos and not wait a few minutes and run the risk of her seeing him leaving, like she had done. With a heavy sigh she made her way back to the table, thinking longingly of her armchair at Baker Street where she could curl up and read a book. Stupid dates. She thought as she wound her way through the scattered tables. More trouble than they’re worth.

She spotted the table quickly but ground to a halt when she realised that someone very familiar was sitting at it, looking completely composed and suave despite the ridiculous seats. Anger surged through her as she stormed over to him.

“Oh, hello.” he said calmly as she reached the table.

“What the hell are you doing here?!” she spat, glaring at him.

He smirked. “Are you having a nice evening?”

“You…” she broke off and glanced towards the doors where Tom had disappeared through. “…hang on. Did you say something to Tom?”

“Tom?”

Molly tutted. “Yes, Tom. My date. What did you say to him?”

He ignored her question and ate a piece of bread calmly.

“What did you say?” she demanded.

He glanced up at her benignly. “Nothing.”

“You must’ve said something!!” she shouted, the whole restaurant falling silent around her. Molly flushed, entirely too aware of everyone staring at her. “He wouldn’t just leave!” she hissed, lowering her voice. “What. Did. You. Say?”

“I don’t see why you’re getting so worked up.” Sherlock said, standing up swiftly. “He’s no loss, you can do better.”

Molly gaped at him. “You are unbelievable!!” she hissed, seizing her coat and bag and storming out of the restaurant. Sherlock could pay her half of the bill, it would serve him right! She hailed a cab and climbed in, giving the driver her address. For the entire journey she was practically vibrating with anger. She couldn’t believe he’d behaved like that. He hadn’t been like that with her for a long time. She dreaded to think what he’d said to Tom.

When the black cab pulled up outside 221 Baker Street, she paid the driver and climbed out, letting herself in and locking to door behind her. It was petty but she didn’t care. She wanted to make it as inconvenient as possible for Sherlock to get back in. She actually contemplated putting the chain across too but decided against it. Molly wasn’t entirely sure if Mrs Hudson was home or not, and she didn’t want to subject her sweet natured landlady to her passive-aggressive behaviour.

Molly stomped upstairs, shoving her house keys into her bag as she went. She dropped her bag on the sofa and quickly removed her coat, hanging it up before going straight up to her bedroom. Her boots came off first, she hurled them one after another onto the floor, disturbing Toby who’d probably been sleeping under her wardrobe again, the cat streaking out of the room.

“Sorry, Tobe.” she muttered as she yanked off her dress and tights, both items joined her boots. After a few minutes everything she’d been wearing, except her knickers, was piled on the floor and she was dressed in her yellow and white spotted pyjama bottoms and old faded university t-shirt. She washed her face quickly, removing all trace of the make up she’d carefully applied only a few hours ago. After a few minutes of intense deliberation she decided to go back downstairs.

It occurred to her, as she curled up in her red fabric arm chair, hugging her favourite cat cushion to her chest, just how much she’d changed. The old Molly, that is, the person she’d been around Sherlock before The Fall, would’ve avoided confrontation like the plague and stayed in her bedroom. But the new and improved Molly had a lot more to say to Sherlock, most of which involved screaming at him.

It took him longer to arrive home that she expected. She tensed up when she heard the front door open followed by his footsteps on the stairs. The reason for his long journey time was evident when he stepped in, he was holding a tray of chips. She looked away, feeling the rage, which had diminished a little during her wait, build up inside her, white hot. How could he be standing there so casually after what he’d done?

“Would you like some chips?”

She ignored him, clenching her fists so hard, her fingernails dug into the palms of her hands.

“Come on, Molly, you must be hungry.” he coaxed, the rustle that followed sounded like he was waving the tray of chips enticingly. “You didn’t get to eat dinner.”

The smell of chips wafted across the room, her stomach grumbled reminding her that she hadn’t had anything to eat, except a tiny bit of bread and olive oil. But she ignored it, the anger that she’d been attempting to rein in, exploded. “Well whose fault is that!?!” she demanded, hurling herself off her chair and marching right up to him. “What the hell were you doing there?! How did you even know I’d be there!? Did you read my texts?! Did you!? I knew something was going on when I left, you were behaving so strangely! Why were you there?! Were you annoyed that I left you alone? That I wasn’t here at your disposal!?!”

“Of course not!” he replied sounding highly affronted.

She scoffed. “Well then, why?! Huh!! Just tell me!” Sherlock remained infuriatingly silent which only served to rile her even more. Molly let out a growl of frustration. “I can’t believe I actually thought you respected me!! That we were friends!? But clearly I’m still someone you keep around because it’s convenient for you, but who you don’t actually give a damn about!!! After everything we’ve been through together, I thought you’d changed, but clearly this new caring side of yours has just been complete and utter bullshit!!!” tears were building up in her eyes, she willed them away because she definitely didn’t want to cry in front of him.

He regarded her serenely and ate one of his chips, seemingly unaffected by her outburst. “Don’t you think you’re being a tad overdramatic, Molly?”

Without even making a conscious decision, her hand moved in a wide ark, connecting with Sherlock’s right cheek with a loud and satisfying smack. She slapped him so hard that he actually dropped his chips and stumbled backwards.

Molly let out a broken sob and turned tail, running up to her bedroom and slamming the door behind her before throwing herself on her bed. Hot, angry tears spilled down her cheeks as she pressed her face into her Cath Kidston duvet cover. She couldn’t believe she’d slapped him, the last time she’d done that he’d been off his face on drugs. Then she’d wanted to slap some sense into him but this time she was so angry with him that she’d wanted to throttle him so really, he got off lightly with a slap.

Suddenly she heard footsteps on the short flight of stairs that led up to her room, she held her breath, listening as he stopped just outside her room. She hoped he wouldn’t knock, she definitely wasn’t ready for round two. There was a quiet sigh before the footsteps retreated back down the stairs. She was glad, of course she’d talk to him but probably in the morning. Right now, all she wanted was to be alone. After a few minutes of silence she heard voices downstairs, she identified Sherlock’s straight away and decided that the other was probably Mrs Hudson. It then fell silent again and stayed that way.

All she wanted was a nice normal relationship, with a nice normal bloke. And yes, Tom wasn’t ‘the one’ but he had seemed lovely, if it weren’t for Sherlock, maybe they could’ve gone on a few dates and had a nice time together. Sometimes she just wished that things were different, that she had ordinary, common or garden friends who weren’t self-proclaimed high functioning sociopath’s or consulting detectives. Not for the first time she wondered if she was destined to be a spinster with forty cats and a smelly flat.

She spent a long time trying to sleep but she just couldn’t, her brain running through her evening on a loop. The tears had long since dried up and she was finding it harder and harder to ignore her grumbling belly. She was starving. After a particularly loud growl she sat up. “It’s no good.” she muttered, climbing off her bed. “I’m going to have to have something to eat.” after listening intently for any noise from downstairs, she left her room and padded down the stairs. The flat was in total darkness, there wasn’t even any light coming from the streetlights outside. She turned on the kitchen light and tiptoed purposefully past their shared bathroom and stopped outside his bedroom door, listening again to see if she could hear any movement. There was nothing. Perhaps he’d gone out. Then again, she hadn’t heard the door but he did have a penchant for climbing out of windows. With a slight shake of her head she turned away and headed back into the kitchen, swiftly deciding that she wanted toast, marmalade and a large mug of tea, and maybe some chocolate from her secret stash.

Molly set about her task, filling the kettle and turning it on before shoving two pieces of bread in the toaster and pushing the lever down. When she’d moved in, she and Sherlock had come to an agreement about the kitchen. He was still allowed to do experiments as long as he cleaned up after himself and there were no harmful chemicals involved and there were to be no body parts or samples kept in the fridge. She’d bought him a small fridge which had been installed in his bedroom where he could store livers and fingers, and on one occasion a human foot but the fridge in the kitchen was strictly for food. He’d whinged about it but eventually agreed. Which was why she was perfectly happy rifling through the fridge for butter and marmalade and milk, safe in the knowledge that she wouldn’t find mould cultures in the butter or jars of severed toes nestled beside the milk.

“Molly?”

She jumped and let out a shriek, whirling round as the pack of butter slipped out of her hands and landed, with a dull thud, on the scarred floorboards. The corner where Sherlock’s chair sat was suddenly illuminated by the floor lamp behind it, she realised with a jolt that she wasn’t alone as she’d first thought. “You scared me!” she snapped, bending down to retrieve the Lurpak from where it had fallen.

Sherlock didn’t reply, he merely watched her from his chair, the light behind him making it hard for her to see his features properly.

The silence stretched between them, heavy with tension, punctuated only by the kettle boiling.

Eventually she rolled her eyes and turned back to the task in hand, pulling a mug out of the cupboard and adding a tea bag to it before pouring the hot water in. If he wasn’t going to talk then neither was she. It was childish she knew, but she couldn’t care less. Molly stirred the tea slowly, fished out the bag and threw it away.

As she returned to the side where her mug was and checked on her toast, he spoke. “I told him that you were incompatible and that if he should contact you again, I would inform the police about the fact that he embezzled his mother-in-law out of her life-savings. He was also having an affair with…”

“Oh, I don’t care, Sherlock!!” she said stonily, spinning back around to face him.

“…with his sister-in-law.” he finished.

Molly swallowed hard, annoyed that she’d picked the wrong man, again. “It’s not about that!” she hissed.

“Well then, what is it about?”

Shaking her head, she turned back and finished making her tea before popping her toast up. “It’s about you interfering with my life.” she said finally, eying him with trepidation.

“I’m sorry?” he replied, getting up from his chair and moving into the brightly lit kitchen where she could see him, though she wasn’t sure if that was better or worse.

“That shouldn’t be a question, Sherlock!” she snapped. “Why-why did you do it?”

“I was concerned…” he murmured. “…you didn’t know him from Adam. Meena’s judgment is skewed at best and your track record is…”

“Don’t you dare bring that into it!!!”

Sherlock huffed loudly. “I was trying to be a friend! Isn’t that what we are?”

“Friend?! Friends don’t do things like this! Or should I say, normal friends don’t!! Oh but I forgot, you’re not normal! Are you!?!” she finished with a snarl, glaring at him.

He visibly flinched and stepped back, his façade slipping. The silence that followed was almost painful.

Molly realised that she was shaking as she stood there, her words ringing in her ears and buzzing in the air between them. She’d never ever said anything like that to him, never referred to his unusual ways as being abnormal. She hated how people seemed to think it was ok to call him a freak because it was Sherlock, and he didn’t have feelings. She knew that wasn’t true of course. He did have feelings and right now, she could tell that she’d hurt them. All she wanted to do was gather her words back up but she couldn’t, so she settled for apologising. “Sherlock…” she said softly. “…I’m…”

“Clearly I was right to be concerned.” he drawled, his mask firmly back in place as he cut across her. “He is obviously untrustworthy. I’d say I saved you a lot of heartbreak…and probably money, given that he’s a thief. In fact, you should probably be thanking me.”

All thoughts of apologising left her as she gaped at him. “Thanking you!?” she spluttered.

“Yes. You should think yourself lucky that he didn’t get the chance to empty your bank account, like he did to his poor, seventy year old mother-in-law.”

She returned to her toast and buttered it jerkily. “What part of this are you not getting? Yes, Tom obviously wasn’t as nice as I thought but that doesn’t mean I should be grateful to you for sticking your nose in, yet again.” she returned everything back to the fridge and picked up her tea and toast. “You have no say over my life, Sherlock. You don’t have the right to tell me who I date.” with that she turned on her heel and made to leave the room.

“Well, maybe I should.” he muttered just as she was about to step through the door.

Molly ground to a halt, shuffling round so she could stare at him. “Maybe you should what?”

“Have the right to tell you who you can date.”

She blinked confusedly. “And why do you say that?”

His mouth opened and closed a few times as he rocked back on his heels. “No reason…” he replied, swinging round and marching back to his chair, blue silk dressing gown billowing behind him. “…go back upstairs and eat, since you obviously cannot stand the sight of me and my abnormality.”

Tears sprang up in her eyes again, threatening to spill over as she stood, shivering in the doorway. “Sherlock, I…”

“Just go, Molly.” he said flatly. “You’re right. I’m wrong. Let’s just leave it at that.”

While she knew it would be the sensible option to leave, before either of them said anything else, she couldn’t make herself do it. She literally couldn’t bring herself to turn around and leave him alone, so instead she set her plate and mug on the kitchen table, for some reason she didn’t fancy her toast anymore, and took a deep breath. “I shouldn’t have said…what I said, Sherlock. I was angry and I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. You can go now.”

“No.” she said stubbornly.

“Well…” he sniffed, leaping to his feet and sweeping towards her. “…if you’re not going to bed, I am.”

On impulse she reached out and caught his wrist as he tried to get past, her fingers curling around his pulse point. He frowned down at her with careful eyes. “My dad always used to say that you shouldn’t go to bed on an argument, you should stay up and fight.”

“Ridiculous.” he muttered as he attempted to shake her off.

She only held on tighter. “Perhaps, but I think it’s good advice…” she paused and dropped her gaze to their hands, realising with a jolt that she’d been absentmindedly stroking his skin, her thumb moving in sweeping arks across the web of bluey veins in his wrist. “…I am sorry about what I said. I shouldn’t have said that you aren’t normal. I-I like your…um…eccentricities. And anyway, normal is overrated and boring.”

Sherlock grunted. “And yet, you agreed to a date with him, who you believed to be as normal as they come.”

“I know but as you pointed out, my dating history is not exactly stellar. Maybe I should start dating unusual men instead.” Molly smiled weakly while he remained stony faced.

“Your tea is getting cold.” he muttered, avoiding her eyes. “I think I’ll be going to bed now.” redoubling his attempts to escape from her grasp as he spoke.

“W-what was the real reason for gate crashing my date?” she asked, tightening her grip. Molly was well versed in Sherlock by that point and while she couldn’t always read him completely accurately, she could tell when he was lying. “Sherlock?”

“I told you…” he said eventually. “…I was concerned. He…”

“Yes and I’m flattered that you were worried about me, but I know there’s something else.”

“There’s nothing else!!” he hissed, finally pulling himself free. “I was concerned and I was right to be!” with that he continued towards his bedroom.

Against her better judgement, Molly followed him, planting herself firmly in the way as he tried to close his door. “C’mon, I know you well enough to know when you’re lying.”

“Clearly you don’t, because that was my reason…my only reason!”

“I don’t believe you!” she snapped stubbornly.

“Well that’s your problem, not mine.” Sherlock sighed heavily, his breath ghosting across her face, making the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. “Go to bed, Molly. We’ll talk about this in the morning.”

She knew they wouldn’t, he’d probably miraculously discover a case that was a ten on his indecipherable scale and they’d never talk about it again. “I’ll go…” she stated, frowning at the look of relief on his face as she spoke. “…when you stop lying to me.”

“Molly…” he whispered desperately, sounding almost as if he was pleading with her.

“No!”

“Go to bed!”

“I won’t until you tell me the whole truth!!”

“Fine!” he hissed venomously. “You want the whole truth?! I was jealous!!”

He spat it out so fiercely that Molly actually stepped back, shocked by his admission. “Jealous of what? Because I was out spending time with someone else so I wasn’t available for you to complain to? My life doesn’t revolve around you, Sherlock!! I mean…” suddenly he’d closed the distance between them, his large hands cradling her head. She let out a surprised squeak as he pressed his lips against hers. It was a quick and clumsy kiss which only made her want more.

“I was jealous because you were out with someone who wasn’t me.” he uttered raggedly. He leaned in and kissed her again, this time for a little longer, but it still wasn’t enough. She wanted more and more. Like the bitter chocolate that was so rich it made her feel sick if she ate more that two squares, but she couldn’t help herself. “I don’t want you seeing other men, Molly.” he breathed as he pulled away for the second time.

“No?” she gasped, trying desperately to capture his lips again.

“No.” he growled in a tone so low it made her stomach clench and then he kissed her properly. Their lips sliding against each other as he removed his hands from her face and clasped her waist, drawing her closer so she could feel the full length of his body pressed against hers. Molly gasped as she felt his erection hot against her abdomen, he took advantage of her open mouth and slipped his tongue past her lips, curling it around her own. She wrapped her arms around his neck, allowing her fingers to tangle around his curls, giving them a gentle tug which made him moan quietly. Sherlock staggered backwards, pulling her with him, the door closing with a loud bang behind her as he pushed her back again, pressing her against it.

Even though her brain seemed to have turned into mush, she could tell he was a good kisser, a little rusty she thought, but then so was she. His lips were soft against hers and he tasted of coffee and a little of cigarette smoke. She wished she had the presence of mind to compare the kiss to her fantasies but all she could think of was him, his lips against hers, his body against hers. It was very distracting.

Unfortunately she knew they couldn’t continue kissing indefinitely, her lungs were already screaming for oxygen. Suddenly he pulled away, she let out a whimper as she sucked in much needed gulps of air. They stared at each other, both gasping loudly, his eyes moving restlessly in their sockets as he examined her. She took the time to return the favour, his eyes were wide open, his pupils so dilated she could only see the thinnest slither of icy blue, his hair was standing on end and his lips were swollen and flushed. She didn’t think he’d ever looked more beautiful. Slowly, he leaned down again, this time kissing a path up the column of her neck and along her jaw, she let out a whine as his teeth grazed her throat. With shaking hands she reached up and pushed his dressing gown off his shoulders, worried that he might back away but he didn’t, he just released her waist briefly so the offending item would fall to the floor before claiming her lips again. All of a sudden they were moving, he spun her round, leading her in a surprisingly graceful dance across the room and, quicker than she thought possible, the back of her legs were hitting the edge of his bed and they were falling backwards.

They landed with a soft flump, the jolt caused them to stop kissing but only briefly, Sherlock quickly adjusted his weight so he wasn’t crushing her and observed her with half closed eyes. “Much better.” he rasped.

Molly responded by grabbing the back of his neck and yanking him down so she could kiss him again. She pressed three fierce kisses to his cupids bow mouth before pushing him away. “Take it off.” she murmured, her voice heavy with desire as she plucked at his soft blue t-shirt.

He smirked and sat back on his haunches, pulling his t-shirt off before throwing it over his shoulder.

Molly’s eyes skittered down, taking in his pale chest, running her hands over the sparse smattering of hair there. He was a lot more muscular than he had been before his fall, she’d had to tend to a few injuries that day and back then his torso had been thin and wiry, now there was more definition and the beginnings of a six pack. Of course, he was still skinny but toned as well. Moving her hands down, her fingers grazed the scar just under his right pectoral, the result of a ‘slight altercation with a bullet’ as he’d said at the time. She still remembered the panic she’d felt when John had called her. He, of course, had brushed it off as nothing which had made her want to punch him quite frankly. It terrified her just how close he’d come to dying and how close she’d come to losing him.

“Molly?” he said uncertainly.

She smiled softly and sat up so they were nose to nose before pressing a sweet kiss to his lips.

“You’re a little over dressed.” he breathed as she pulled away.

“Hm…so I am.” without a second thought, she pulled her own t-shirt off and threw it away. She didn’t know where this confident Molly had come from, but she was glad she hadn’t deserted her.

Sherlock made a noise in the back of his throat, easing her back on the bed before sitting up again. She moaned as his hands cupped her breasts. “I was wrong…” he muttered, seemingly to himself. “…they’re the perfect size.”

Her breath caught in her throat at that, no man had ever called her breasts perfect before, every boyfriend she’d had told her they were too small, which was why Sherlock’s comment at that dreadful Christmas party had hurt so much.

He smiled her favourite crooked smile, which had an apologetic undercurrent.

She wanted to tell him that he didn’t need to apologise, she’d forgiven him the moment he’d said he was sorry and kissed her cheek, but really she didn’t want to rake all that up again, not when he was straddling her and they were both half naked. Instead she pulled him back to her, kissing him slowly, the franticness of before had dissipated slightly but in its place was a slow, burning hunger. She could feel him, hard and insistent against her and all she wanted to do was dispense with the pesky material between them and finally feel skin against skin.

He kissed her languorously and pushed himself up on his elbows, his expression was a little reticent. “Just so you know…” he said uncertainly. “…I haven’t…um...for a long time…” he broke off and grimaced in frustration.

Molly gave him a soft smile, it was nice to see him look so unsure of himself though she definitely preferred his usual self-assuredness. “So you have…before?”

Sherlock nodded quickly. “Yes…just, it’s been a while. I’m sorry if…” he ground to a halt again, looking distinctly embarrassed.

If she was honest, she was a little surprised. She’d fully believed the rumour that he was a virgin, just as John did and probably all of his other friends, had she felt the need to ask. Then again, his kisses weren’t those of someone that inexperienced. “It’s been a while for me too.” she murmured, wrapping one of his curls around her finger.

“I’m quite sure it’s been longer for me.”

Rolling her eyes, she let the curl spring back and stretched up, kissing the corner of his mouth. “I don’t care.” she whispered, grabbing the hair at the nape of his neck and pulling him back down to her so she could kiss him properly.

Their kisses got more and more urgent, their hands roaming over each others bodies, skin on skin, but it wasn’t enough. She wanted more, needed more.

“I assume you’re still on The Pill.” he growled, his breath hot against her neck.

She murmured her assent and from then on there was no more talking, just touching and moaning and sighing and Sherlock everywhere, his breath warm against her ear, his skin, feverish and slick against hers. It didn’t even compare to the fantasies she’d indulged in before because it was real and it was happening.

An immeasurable amount of time later they lay, side by side, gasping for breath, the duvet tangled around their legs, just barely covering their lower halves. She knew her breasts were uncovered but she couldn’t bring herself to care, besides Sherlock thought they were perfect. A fresh blush bloomed across her face, neck and chest at that thought.

As her breathing slowed, reality began to creep in and by the time her breaths had returned to a normal pace, it had well and truly crashed down around her. She’d had sex with Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes, who pretended to have no feelings, who thought love was a defect found on the losing side, who thought caring was a disadvantage. Did he still think that? Granted he’d been different since his return but was he that different? What did the sex mean? Did it change anything?

“Shut up.” he said unexpectedly.

She resisted the urge to look over at him, fixing her gaze on the navy blue lampshade hanging from the ceiling. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking, loudly.”

Molly began chewing on her bottom lip, her mind now working overtime as it attempted to analyse what he was thinking from his tone of voice. Suffice to say, it failed miserably. “W-what…what was that?” she muttered, groping for the edge of the duvet and hauling it up to her neck, she didn’t want to have this conversation when she was feeling so exposed.

“I believe it’s called sex or intercourse or coitus if you prefer the technical term.”

She grimaced, quite frankly ‘sex’ would’ve been fine. “I know that…just…” she sighed, turning her head right away from him, frowning at the framed periodic table that hung on the wall beside the window. “…what does this mean? Do you…I don’t know…do you have feelings for me or was it just spur of the moment thing? Because-because if it was, I’d rather you told me now, then we can just y’know…be embarrassed and forget about it. Or whatever…”

“Well, I certainly didn’t plan it.” he replied shortly. “Did you?”

“Of course not!”

“So I suppose, in answer to your question, it was a ‘spur of the moment thing’, but I do not want to forget about it, nor am I embarrassed. Unless you are.”

She couldn’t help the hope that began to blossom in her chest at those words, but still she couldn’t bring herself to look at him. “I’m-I’m not…” she replied. “…so-so you have feelings for me?”

He sighed, the bed shifting slightly as he moved. “Molly, look at me.” he implored gently.

She rolled over, somewhat reluctantly and looked at him for the first time. He looked different, his hair was still a mess and his lips were still swollen from her kisses but the burning desire from earlier had gone, in its place was something softer, something which made her stomach flutter not altogether unpleasantly.

“If you want some impassioned romantic speech where I confess to being in love with you for ex amount of weeks or months and then promise to bring you flowers and chocolates and tell you I love you everyday, I think we both know I’m not the right man.”

“Oh Sherlock, I don’t need that, if I did I wouldn’t have chosen you. I know you, remember? I…”

“Don’t interrupt!” he chided. “Yes, I have…feelings for you. I have for quite some time.” she opened her mouth to say something but he frowned at her, so she resisted the urge. “I’m not going to pretend this will be easy. I will say the wrong thing countless times, I will be insensitive and I will probably make you cry at least once a week. I will forget your birthday and our anniversary and I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing. In short, I would be a terrible boyfriend. But I would like us to try.” he looked hopeful and completely adorable as he finished.

Her heart gave an uneven thud as she peered at him uncertainly. “Are you…are you sure? What if you change your mind, or get bored with me in a few months time?” she fretted.

“Give me you hand.” he whispered, she did as he asked and watched as his fingers curled around it, drawing it towards him before placing it over his heart, which she could feel pounding away violently in his chest. He let her hand go, but she left it where he’d put it, and cradle her face carefully. “This is what you do to me, Molly Hooper. And if I thought there was even the slightest chance that I might change my mind, or get bored with you, I wouldn’t be telling you this. And…”

Before he could say anything else, she closed the gap between them, kissing him hard, pushing him over onto his back so she could straddle him, which was an interesting sensation given they were both naked. “I-I would love to try with you…” she murmured, watching as his pupils dilated before pressing a biting kiss to his lips. “…but you have to promise me something.”

He arched an eyebrow. “What?”

“I want you to talk to me. Don’t try and deduce everything. Ask me questions if you have any, I know this is new to you and I don’t want you to feel…uncomfortable.”

Sherlock gave her a look with made her cheeks flush a bright pink and her toes curl. “I’m not…uncomfortable.” how he made such an innocuous word like ’uncomfortable’ sound so dirty, she didn’t know. He hooked a finger under her chin and drew her down for more hungry kisses.

Unfortunately, her stomach chose that exact moment to remind that she hadn’t eaten properly since lunch time.

Embarrassment flowed through her as she buried her face in his neck while he merely chuckled. “Hmm…before we continue this, I think perhaps we should get some food. After all, I do have many strenuous activities planned.”

“Really? Such as?” Molly purred, surprised by the sound of her own voice.

He laughed gruffly. “You’ll just have to wait and see.” he drawled, pulling her in for a long slow kiss, rolling them so he was hovering over her. He kissed her just long enough to take her breath away and then he climbed off her, leaving her flushed and wanton on his bed, while he pulled on the pyjama bottoms they’d discarded before their exertions. “Food first.” he said simply.

Molly scowled at him. “I’m not that hungry. Not for food anyway.”

“Yes you are…” he replied, picking up his t-shirt and throwing it at her. “…you haven’t eaten since lunch time and that was an unsatisfactory pasta salad from Barts canteen. You had a little bread and oil at the restaurant, but not much because you’re not entirely sure about the combination and you never got to eat your toast. So, food. I’m sure we have something in.” with that he left the room, leaving her to pull on the t-shirt he’d thrown at her and trail after him, shaking her head. God, she did love him.


End file.
